


Ghosts, Scars, and Dark Places

by ceemobster



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Cinematic Universe, DCU, Suicide Squad (2016), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Sex, Jason feels, M/M, Slow Burn, a little fluff, trinity feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 18:09:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7811980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceemobster/pseuds/ceemobster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Superman’s sacrifice and then his resurrection, hope is restored within Bruce. He has friends now and he relearns to always do what is right. For a while, it seems to be working. But when the ghosts of his greatest failures come back to tear him apart, he feels that he wants to let himself be shattered into pieces. After all, it is no less than what he deserves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts, Scars, and Dark Places

**Author's Note:**

> To get one glaring plot hole out of the way: I realise the name ‘Nightwing’ canonically comes from Kryptonian lore, so I have no way of explaining where Dick got it from in this verse.
> 
> This fic is basically my attempt at integrating a bit of Jason’s arc into the DCEU, but with Superbat, obviously. There’s also a reference to that one scene in Suicide Squad. For those of you who care, it’s a completely separate story from the other post-BvS fic I wrote a while ago.

The sound that his fist made when it connected with her head was satisfactory. It was gratifying, it felt good, _wonderful_ even. It felt wonderful to violently hurt one half of the pair that had taken so much from him.

She was effectively unconscious. He could leave her here. He could let her drown, leave her to die, let her cold, lifeless body resurface in a few days. Oh, how he _wanted_ it. How he wanted to kill her.

He pulled her out of the water instead.

* * *

Everyone had been mindful not to ask about the defaced suit in the glass case. Clark, Diana, Barry, and Victor had most likely figured it out on their own. The death of Bruce Wayne's ward had once been the headline of national news, and some time after that, so had the disappearance of Batman's partner been. It couldn't be difficult for anyone who knew of Batman's identity to connect the dots. Arthur might not know, judging by the way his eyebrows curled the first time he'd seen the suit, but even so, he had so far kept his questions to himself.

After many months of having the League members at the cave on a regular basis, Bruce thought nobody would ever bring it up. He stopped holding his breath every time someone lingered in front of the case. His jaw stopped clenching when someone brushed past or accidentally bumped into it. In time, he allowed himself to think that he could live the rest of his life without ever having to explain the tattered suit and the spray-painted words.

But just like every other time he had let his guard down, the decision was proven to be a mistake.

“Would you have done it differently, if you had the chance?”

Bruce, his focus completely centralised on the blueprint he was studying, did not immediately register the question. At first he did not even realise the question was directed at him. He continued tracing the lines on his computer screen for a few more seconds before his head finally snapped up.

Standing in front of the glass case, Diana looked on with her head tilted up. Her gaze was fixated on the suit, but her eyes looked hollow, looking more like she was looking through it instead of at it. A tale lurked behind that question. Bruce could sense it, an unspoken sentiment that, despite having known the Amazon for quite some time, he still could not put a finger on.

Clark, who was sitting on the edge of the platform with half his legs in the water, had also heard the question and looked up. He saw Diana and tilted his head curiously, perhaps wondering what she was truly referring to, just as Bruce was.

The day was slow and peaceful, and the cave was comfortably cool. It was yet another Saturday afternoon the three of them had chosen to spend in each other's quiet company. The habit was relatively new, but it had quickly taken root, without much of an awkward introduction, almost like it was the way they had always been. Even Bruce could not deny how natural and true it felt to just _be_ with them, once he had decided to wholeheartedly trust them. These idyllic moments, when they did not have anywhere to be or anyone to become, when they could just lounge around in civilian clothes doing nothing in particular, had become some his favourite.

“Done what differently?”

Diana gently pressed a palm on the glass. “If you had the chance to do it all over again, would you have done anything differently?” she asked again. “Kept him safe? Would you have taken him as your ward, still?”

Bruce waited for the rage to wash over him, the red-hot anger towards Diana for asking such an infuriating question, a question she did not have the right to ask. To his surprise, it never came. He had a feeling that it would have played out differently if it was anyone else who’d asked. “I _did_ take him as my ward and my partner, and I _did_ fail to save him,” he answered, his voice level. “That's what matters.”

Diana nodded, then walked away from the glass case. “You don't want to speculate,” she said, finally meeting Bruce's eyes.

“Not when it's futile to do so.”

“But you made peace with it.”

Bruce did not think he had ever made peace with anything in his life. He moved forward, maybe, but the truth was he never truly let anything go. He knew he would never let what had happened to Jason just slip by, could never do so even if he tried, and he would never try. “In a way,” he said instead.

“And you?” Diana asked, now facing Clark.

Clark blinked, looking like he had not expected to be invited into the conversation. “What about me?”

“Do you still speculate on what could have been?” Diana’s voice was soft, her expression pensive. “Your father? Lois?”

Clark hummed thoughtfully. “I trusted my father. I still do, in the sense that I believe he made the right decision at the time.” He looked down at the water with a forlorn smile. “As for Lois, it was a conscious decision we made together,” he continued, and Bruce thought he sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than Diana. “She’s rebuilt her life again and I couldn’t be happier for her.”

Diana graciously did not ask him to elaborate, nor did she ask another question. She quietly sat down next to Clark on the floor, rolled her pant legs up to her knees, and dipped her legs in the water as well. With the silence settling among them once more, Bruce went back to the blueprint of the batmobile modifications he intended to make.

Some time later, Alfred's voice came through the speakers, telling them that dinner was ready. Bruce noticed that Clark lingered a second too long in front of the glass case before joining him and Diana in the elevator.

* * *

“Oh, by the way, I have to be home for a week or so,” Clark announced to the League at the end of a meeting. “Home as in Smallville. My mother hasn't been feeling well.”

The meeting itself had been quick and almost without content. Nothing major had happened in a while and nothing major was happening, so they didn’t actually have a reason to convene, but Bruce insisted that they met at least once every two weeks, if only to report that there was nothing to convene for. His actual purpose in putting the rule in place was to have a cyclic means to make sure that everyone was still committed to the team. It was important, after all, to know that they were all in it for the long haul.

“Is it bad?” Diana asked.

“No, it's nothing serious,” Clark said, putting his hands up. “She's been to the doctor, seems to be just a cold. But, er... She just—she tends to really miss my dad, when she's sick. I just... want to be there for her.”

The whole League nodded with understanding. Diana and Barry made Clark promise to let them know if he or his mother needed anything, Barry suggesting that he could get green tea straight from Japan within the blink of an eye, and then they all went on their ways. Before Clark could exit the cave, however, Bruce called him over.

“You sure you don’t need help?”

Clark’s forehead creased into a soft frown and his head tilted slightly to the side. It was a gesture Bruce had catalogued in his mind, one of the many facets of Clark Kent, each and every one of them carefully stored and labelled. This one was confusion, a prompt for the other person to speak further.

“I know some very good physicians, perhaps they could recommend a reputable peer in Kansas,” Bruce explained. “Or I could ask if any of them had the time to make the trip with-”

“Bruce,” Clark cut in. His lips were curved in a grin, though the frown from before was still in place. This one was disbelief, with a side of mild amusement. “I appreciate the offer, but none of that is necessary for now. Like I said, it’s just a cold.” He shrugged. “She just needs someone to take care of her for a few days.”

Bruce took a moment to consider Clark’s answer, but he finally nodded, decided to trust Clark, knowing that he could. “Alright,” he agreed. “But if you need anything...”

“I’ll let you know. I promise,” Clark finished for him.

Noticing the end of the conversation, Bruce took a couple steps back, as if to give room for Clark to float up and fly. But Clark did not move. He merely looked around the cave, though seemingly not focusing on anything, his lower lip caught between his teeth in a nibble. This was a form of stalling, Bruce recognised, the gesture Clark made when he had something to say but for whatever reason was having trouble getting the words out. Bruce raised a curious brow at the mannerism, but he remained patient, waited for Clark to say or do whatever he chose to.

Clark’s eyes roamed around for a while longer before they finally rested on Bruce. “She asks about you, you know,” he said quietly.

Bruce did not have a response to that. He merely looked at Clark, willing him to continue if he wanted to, or to fly away and leave. Bruce had nothing to say, did not know any way to respond to the information Clark had just given him. He had no idea of what he was supposed to do with the knowledge that Martha, whose son he had almost taken away from her, whose son _had_ been taken away from her, still cared enough to ask about him. He’d visited her several times, while Clark had still been underground, to make sure that she had not wanted for anything. All those times she had been nothing but gracious to him, certainly much more than he deserved. It had almost been a year since his last visit. Since she had got her son back, Bruce no longer had a reason to come. Perhaps more importantly, he no longer had the right to, not to say that he ever had.

“She’d love for you to come over to the farm again,” Clark continued. “I mean, not now, she wouldn’t want you to see her when she’s sick,” he smiled, “but sometime.”

“She has you now.”

“She does,” Clark replied. “Has nothing to do with the fact that she misses your company.”

Again, there was no right way to respond to that. None that Bruce knew of anyway. But Clark was looking at him with such an intense, ardent gaze that he had to come up with something, anything, if only to get Clark to stop. “Okay,” he agreed weakly.

That earned a wide grin from Clark. “I’ll tell her you said hi,” Clark said. Then his grin turned into a sheepish smile, with a soft pink on his cheeks that grew brighter by the second. Bruce opened his mouth to speak, to ask, but before he could say anything, Clark floated up and flew off, leaving nothing but a gust of wind in his wake.

Bruce was left to wonder what had truly been on Clark’s mind. Had that been embarrassment he’d seen at the end? But for what? Admittedly, he had yet to completely figure out this specific gesture, which only meant that he needed to be more observant next time.

* * *

The nightmare never ceased. He had many, of course, had always lived with nightmares tainting his sleep. This one just happened to stand out given how fresh the underlying memory which prompted it still was. Even after Clark had resurrected, it still came to him every other night.

It always started the same way. He was in the desert, his wrists chained above his head. The boom of Superman’s landing sent a shiver up his spine. He tried to break free, rattled his chains violently, but all the different methods he’d learnt on breaking out of restraints failed him. There was nothing he could do as Superman approached him, pulled his cowl off, and ripped his heart out.

But he did not die. As soon as his heart had been ripped out, he was transported back to the port. Doomsday had been weakened by his Kryptonite bullet, green smoke circling around its head. Diana was at its feet, her lasso straining around the monster’s body. It wasn’t enough. The creature still stood and he knew that soon enough it would recover. What they needed was the spear, but it was nowhere to be seen.

Then Superman came, a figure of red and blue in the air, zooming towards the creature at incredible speed. He was holding something in his hand, a long staff, its end emitting a radiant green glow. The Kryptonite spear. Bruce watched in anticipation as Superman stabbed the creature with it, then in petrifying horror as Superman’s chest was skewered by the creature.

From that point on, the dream would take a different turn every time. On this particular night, it sent him running.

Bruce ran and ran and ran towards where Doomsday had fallen. He knew he could not save Superman—could not save Clark, but he kept running anyway, did not know how to stop. He reached the spot that was supposed to be his destination, only Doomsday was not there, and neither was Clark. All he saw around him was the wreckage of their fight.

Bruce fell on his knees and began digging. He grabbed hold of the debris under him, wooden planks and bricks and metal pipes, and threw them over his shoulders. After an entirely unmeasureable amount of time, he finally saw it, through the opening he had made in the wreckage; the glimpse of an arm. Bruce dug even more vigorously, hell-bent on uncovering the body buried there. In spite of the desperation of knowing that Clark was beyond saving, he kept digging anyway, did not know how to stop. That was until he threw a wooden pillar to the side and finally uncovered the face. That was when he finally stopped, froze even, because now he did not know how to move.

Because it was not Clark’s face that he was looking at. It was not Superman’s body that he had recovered from the wreckage. It was Jason’s.

Bruce jolted awake with a scream. The sheet under his back was wet with sweat, and when he tried to wipe off the cold beads of moisture on his forehead, his hand trembled. With great effort, he propped himself up into a seating position and leaned back against the headboard. His whole frame was still shaking and his breathing was erratic. He thought about the pills in the drawer of the bedside table, but decided against it, opted for a meditation technique instead. Before he could successfully get his heartbeat under control, however, a knock on his door interrupted him.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred called warily from the other side. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Alfred.” His voice quivered in spite of his effort to steady it. Not that he needed to hide anything from Alfred, the man was all too familiar with his sleeping problems.

“Would you like me to fix you a cup of tea?”

“No, thank you,” he quickly answered. “Go ahead back to sleep.”

Once he was sure that Alfred had returned to his room, Bruce finished his meditation and then made his way down to the cave. He was definitely not getting any more sleep for the rest of the night, so he figured he might as well do something productive, and a workout session that let him punch away his fears certainly could not hurt.

He never got around to doing anything, however. One look at the glass case that held Jason’s suit and his knees buckled under him.

That morning, he decided to call Dick for the first time in a very long time.

* * *

“This is Dick Grayson. Also known as Nightwing.”

They were in Clark’s house this time, a simple, nondescript structure on the outskirts of Metropolis that Bruce had built for him. On paper, it was Bruce Wayne’s property, built for investment purposes though currently not for rent or sale. Clark had profusely refused and protested Bruce’s decision to build it after he’d risen from the grave, but Bruce had convinced him that it had not been a gift but a matter of necessity. Clark Kent the reporter was officially dead and there was no way to bring him back, but Superman remained Metropolis’ hero after his return. Clark needed a covert residence in the city in one form or another, if only to spend the occasional nights. He might be fast, but he was not Barry-fast, and it would still be impractical for him to have to fly back and forth between Smallville and Metropolis. All further arguments Bruce had shot down with relative ease.

“I’ve heard many good things about Nightwing, as well as your time as Robin,” Clark said, shaking Dick’s hand. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Dick was positively beaming, lips stretched in a gleeful grin. He was obviously more than a little star-struck. Bruce had to admit, he had missed the intensity that was his first ward, had missed the brightness that Dick carried himself with everywhere he went.

“It’s an honour to meet you, Superman, Sir!”

Clark laughed. “When we’re in regular clothes, it’s just Clark.”

“Of course! Clark!” Dick exclaimed, his voice an octave higher than normal.

Then it was Diana’s turn to shake hands with him. “Hello, Dick.”

Dick did an awkward little bow, halfway between a nod and a curtsy. “Wonder Woman,” he breathed out. “What an honour...”

“Call me Diana, please,” she said with a gentle smile.

It took a while for Dick to get over himself, but he eventually did, and they all sat down in the dining room for lunch. Diana had brought them a large container of home-cooked shrimp pasta. It was thoroughly enjoyable, especially paired with the wine that Bruce had brought, and Dick ended up with the largest serving. They did not discuss any League business that afternoon. In fact, Bruce did not say much, letting Dick ask the questions he had obviously been dying to ask Superman and Wonder Woman to his heart’s desire. Unsurprisingly, both Clark and Diana were gracious with their answers, and Bruce only listened as they regaled Dick with story after story.

Later on, Diana suggested that they went to get ice cream from the nearest convenience store for dessert. Dick, not missing a beat, jumped at the opportunity to escort the lady, while Bruce and Clark remained behind to clean up.

“You finally decided to reconnect,” Clark started the subject.

Needless to say, Bruce had seen it coming. He’d expected for either Clark or Diana or both to broach the topic eventually. “Yes,” he replied simply while rinsing a stack of plates.

“I’m glad,” Clark said.

“He’s a good kid.”

“Not much of a kid, Bruce.” Clark chuckled. “You never mentioned his age. I mean, I knew he couldn’t still be the little boy he was when he was Robin, but I never actually considered the math, and the way you talked about him... I don’t know, I kind of expected someone in the late teens, not a grown man.”

“Yeah, well.” Bruce sighed. “He’ll always be my kid, I suppose.”

Bruce kept on rinsing, but then noticed that next to him, Clark had stopped washing. One of his hands was still holding a wine glass and the other a foamy sponge, but they had suddenly stopped moving for no obvious reason. Bruce looked up at Clark’s face to find out why, and found Clark looking back at him, smiling.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Clark lied.

Bruce set down the plates he had rinsed on the counter next to the sink. “ _What?_ ” he repeated.

“ _Nothing_ ,” Clark insisted. He had resumed the wash of the wine glass, though he was still smiling that undecipherable smile. “I’m just happy, _really_ happy that you decided to reach out.”

Bruce still did not think he completely understood, but decided to let it slide, if only because _he_ had something he wanted to say to Clark. “Fine. Give me that,” he said, gesturing for the glass Clark had scrubbed clean. “Listen, I have... a question to ask you.”

It was then Clark’s turn to look at him curiously. “Shoot.”

Bruce inhaled deeply, prepared himself to lay out the talking points. He had practiced for the conversation over and over at home, mulled over the most strategic wording to get his questions across, but that did not seem to make this any easier. “I know we’ve been over this before, when you just... returned,” he began. “But at the time, my objective was purely to study what happened to you for your sake and for the sake of the knowledge itself.” He carefully set down the rinsed glass and turned the faucet off, and finally looked Clark square in the eye.

“What are you talking about?” Clark asked. He seemed to have noticed the seriousness in Bruce’s voice, the gravity in his composure, and thus had decided to put down his sponge.

“I just—I have to ask. Again.” Bruce swallowed. “Do you—is there really nothing—can you really not remember anything, anything at all, from when you were... dead?”

Clark blinked a couple times, and then frowned. Bruce thought he detected a hint of disapproval. “I told you,” Clark sighed, “I remember stabbing the creature, I remember getting stabbed, I remember the _pain_. And then it was a whole lot of... muddled nothingness. I remember feeling cold. And a sense of suffocation.”

“And nothing about how you came back.”

Clark shook his head. “My heart just started beating again. I remember blasting the coffin open with heat vision, but nothing before that.”

“Right.” Bruce nodded in a resigned manner. “I’m sorry, I know you don’t like talking about it. I just had to ask.”

“Where is this coming from, anyway?” Clark eyed Bruce. The disapproval was gone, replaced with what seemed to be genuine concern in his eyes.

Bruce looked away from the brilliant blue. “I just thought, if you could come back, then maybe...” he trailed off. “I had a dream the other night. It reminded me of something.” He shook his head then, as if doing so could shake off the ghost of his nightmare. “But it’s not important.”

“Bruce.” Clark’s fingers laced around Bruce’s elbow and tugged gently. “You can talk to me.”

Bruce sighed, allowing some of his tension to seep out into the air. Part of him wanted to talk. Part of him wanted to share his burden with Clark. He wanted to breathe more of his suffering out and let Clark breathe it in, wanted to let Clark help him shoulder his fear and his pain. The rest of him, however, firmly believed that he had caused Clark enough suffering since the moment they’d first met. The rest of him knew that he had no right to Clark’s help, or anyone else’s for the matter.

Silence stretched between them for a few long seconds. Clark seemed to understand that Bruce was not going to talk and accepted it. Instead of pursuing the matter, he stepped forward, brought his strong arms around Bruce’s middle, and rested his head comfortably on Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce, though unable to bring himself to wrap his arms around Clark and properly return the hug, let it happen. He dared himself to breathe out more of his tension, dared himself to let Clark breathe it in. After a few moments, he even went as far as leaned his cheek against Clark’s temple. He could not help succumbing to his own greed, absorbing Clark’s warmth into him and letting Clark took away some of his coldness. He let Clark hold him together, if only for a short moment.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce heard himself mutter weakly. “Clark, I’m sorry.”

“You’ve apologised enough,” Clark whispered back. “There’s nothing to forgive, not anymore.”

Bruce did not hear the front door open, but when he saw Dick and Diana hanging back, observing him and Clark from a distance, he untangled himself from Clark and busied with finding the right bowls for their ice cream.

* * *

Smallville’s night sky was always a sight. It was certainly one of his favourite things about visiting Clark and Martha at the farm. He was loyal to Gotham, would not trade the grime, the depravity, the fear in its blackest night for anything, would not know how to, but an open sky of glimmering stars was nice for an occasional change.

Bruce and Diana were sitting on the ground in the backyard, leaning back on their hands, while Clark and his mother were inside the house, cleaning up after dinner. They had offered to help, but Martha had shooed them out of the kitchen, insisting that they were guests and thus had no business getting their hands dirty. Clark had laughed and told them to wait in the backyard, promising that he would join them with hot cocoa later on.

“Do you still get homesick?” Bruce asked after little small talk about how they should come to the farm more often.

Diana threw him a brief glance before returning her gaze on the sky above. “Yes. Sometimes.”

A moment of silence stretched between them before he spoke again. “Would you have done it differently, if you had the chance?” he asked with a playful smirk.

Diana recognised her own question from months ago being thrown back at her and let out a laugh, though it subsided rather quickly. “No,” she breathed out, the ghost of a disappearing smile on her face. “Sometimes I think I do, but really I don’t.”

Bruce nodded. “No regrets.”

“Not necessarily.” She gave a weak shrug. Her eyes looked distant now, no longer focused on the stars, or anything for the matter. “There are always regrets. There are always things I should have done, should not have done, should have done better. But even after all the things I’ve lost, all the... people...” she trailed off. “I’ve learnt that some things you just have to embrace.”

Bruce studied her profile, wondered what was hidden behind those eyes, the tale that lurked between her words. He decided not to ask, though. Diana was a goddess in every sense of the word. She was something ethereal, approachable due to their friendship but still untouchable in an empyrean manner, and he would not demand from her something she would not willingly give.

“Right,” he said, adopting a lighter tone. “Embrace the truth and all that. Your catchphrase.”

Diana chuckled, a musical sound, and turned to look at him. “It’s not just pretty words, you know. I think people need to be more honest, with themselves most of all.”

“You don’t think people are honest with themselves?”

Before she could answer, the door of the house behind them creaked open, distracting them from their conversation. Clark emerged from the threshold, holding in his hands a plastic tray with three steaming cups on top of it. Bruce watched as Clark pushed the door closed with his hip and then slowly and carefully made his way towards Bruce and Diana.

Still sitting beside him, Diana seemed to study Clark, looking him up and down. Then her sharp, unrelenting gaze returned to Bruce and studied him, too. “Not as honest as they should be,” she answered. The words were simple, but the corner of her lips, which was quirked in a smug smirk, suggested that there was so much more behind that answer.

There was something thoroughly _knowing_ in that smirk that Bruce wanted to decipher. He wanted to ask her what she meant, was very close to doing so. But then Clark sat down in front of them, eyes celestially bright, presence even warmer than the cocoa he brought, and Bruce forgot what they had been talking about.

* * *

“Come on!” Clark exclaimed from the water. “You’re gonna let me do this by myself?”

“I have no qualms about that.”

They were in Bruce’s house, or outside of Bruce’s house, to be more accurate. Another League meeting had concluded an hour ago, with the unanimous decision that a base of operation for the Justice League separate from the batcave needed to be developed as soon as possible. Their fight with Steppenwolf and his army, though had ended in their favour, had been too close to a Pyrrhic victory for comfort. It had made them realise just how present and global the world needed the Justice League to be. The other members had places to be after the meeting, with the exception of Clark, who therefore had accepted Alfred’s invitation to stay for dinner.

With dinner time itself still a way to go, Bruce had suggested to take a walk around the lake to pass the time. He hadn’t exactly expected that they would end up here, with Clark gloriously naked in the water, clothes carelessly discarded on dry ground, and Bruce standing on said dry ground, narrowing his eyes at Clark. If he’d known this was the circumstance that Clark would lead them to, he would have suggested a movie instead. Maybe.

“You live next to a lake and you’ve never once taken a dip in it. That’s just unacceptable,” Clark said, shaking his head in what seemed to be genuine disbelief.

“I have a pool,” Bruce protested. “Why would I swim in a lake when I have a pool right there?” He pointed in the general direction of his swimming pool.

“It’s not the same,” Clark argued.

“Yeah, well, I’m not a raunchy teenager with an unreasonable urge to skinny-dip in whatever natural bodies of water I can find.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being a raunchy teenager every once in a while,” Clark said with a wink, and Bruce’s stomach did a somersault. “Dick ever do this?”

“If he so much as tried, I would drag him away and point him to the pool.”

Clark chuckled and spun around leisurely, the chest-deep water sloshing around him. Bruce tried not to stare at the hard muscles on Clark’s upper back and failed.

“Come on, old man,” Clark continued to tease, his back still towards Bruce. He dove down and then resurfaced quickly.  “Let loose for a while.”

Bruce swallowed, already feeling his resolve weakening. Having the Man of Steel for company is proving to be bad for his health, both mental and physical. “It’s unsanitary,” he tried to argue. “Not to mention the bugs.”

“You fought an army of aliens not two weeks ago and survived. Don’t tell me the Dark Knight is scared of a little bug.”

“Where did the shy, mild-mannered farm boy go?”

Clark spun back around to face Bruce, showing a smirk that was all too mischievous for both Clark Kent and Superman. “And where did the playboy billionaire go?” he retorted with a daring quirk of his brow.

It was all very dizzying. Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered a string of colourful swears under his breath. Hearing Clark laugh merrily in response, obviously having way too much fun for his own good, Bruce began unbuttoning his shirt. There was no going back from that point on. He kicked off his shoes and socks, pulled off his shirt and slacks, and finally discarded his boxer briefs. His steps into the water were slow but sure, mindful of how it felt on his skin. The temperature was actually perfect. Bruce thought it might even be nicer than the pool’s, but he was certainly not going to admit it out loud. He kept his eyes looking down on the water as he walked until he stopped near Clark, where the water surface fell just below his chest, and then finally looked up.

Clark looked like a mess. A mess, meaning that he was a ridiculous clash of sensual and goddamn _adorable_ , which was infuriating. His hair was wet from his quick dive earlier and there were droplets running down his chiselled features. The relatively clear water could not hope to distort his body, which was more flawlessly sculpted than the most beautiful marble statue Bruce had ever seen. In contrast to those rather racy details was the smile he was giving Bruce; small and sheepish and _shy_ , one of the few gestures Bruce had yet to completely figure out. His cheeks, ears, and the top of his chest were flushed, he was so very obviously blushing that Bruce could not help wondering if he was warm to the touch. His pupils had dilated somewhat, but his eyes held Bruce’s as earnestly as ever, and the blue rings did not lose its brilliance.

In short, Clark was the epitome of perfection, and Bruce could not look away.

“Your wounds from the battle are healing quickly,” Clark commented. His voice was just a note lower than usual.

Bruce shrugged, trying to look nonchalant, pretending that his insides were not turning over at the sight of Clark scrutinising his damaged body. “Some of the scars will stay for good, but yes, they’re mostly healed.”

That did not earn him a verbal response. Instead, Clark took tentative steps towards him until their faces had to be less than fifteen inches apart. The water rippled between their chests and Bruce swore that its temperature had to have gone up a few degrees. Clark was still studying his scars, looking him over, and even without the heat vision, Bruce felt like Clark’s gaze was burning holes in his body. When Clark visibly focused on the crisscross mess on the front of his left shoulder, he shifted under the scrutiny.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Bruce finally broke the silence, unable to endure it any longer with the way Clark was looking at him. “I know I’m ugly.”

Clark’s head snapped up immediately. “Ugly?” he said, forehead curled in a deep frown, jaws set. This gesture Bruce recognised well. Clark might not wear it often, but if there was one emotion Bruce was familiar with, it was anger. That was not to say that he had any idea as to what had ignited it in Clark, however. “Bruce, you’re...” Clark trailed off. He shook his head, and slowly, the frown began to smooth out and his jaws stopped clenching. When he spoke again, his voice was painfully gentle. “You’re the smartest, strongest, bravest, kindest person I know.” He stepped even closer towards Bruce.

They were sharing the same air now and it was getting difficult to breathe. Clark snaked an arm around Bruce’s waist, and just like that time many weeks ago in Clark’s kitchen, he let it happen. The patch of skin on the small of his back where Clark’s hand rested felt like it was burning with the most delicious heat he had ever felt in his life. His body yearned for more contact, but just like that time many weeks ago, he could not bring himself to touch Clark. It felt intrusive, disruptive even. Clark was pure goodness and radiance and he was not worthy of any of it.

Clark began tracing the scars on Bruce’s shoulder with the fingers of his other hand. His touch was feather-light, torturous and delightful at the same time. Bruce shivered. It seemed to encourage Clark, as his hand then moved up to caress Bruce’s neck, still as soft as it was maddening. Bruce could not decide if he wanted to sink underwater and never resurface or crawl into Clark and never break away. Instead of doing either, his mind opted to consider the words Clark had used to describe him. _Smart_. Maybe. Alfred would disagree for all the stupid things he’d done in the past. _Strong_. Certainly nowhere nearly as strong as Clark. _Brave_. Perhaps suicidal would fit better. _Clark_ was brave. Once Bruce had thought otherwise, but Clark’s sacrifice had proven him very, very wrong. _Kind_. No. Definitely not. He was _not_ kind. He was jaded, cruel, broken. _Clark_ , however, was kind. Clark was goodness personified.

There was hardly any distance left between them when Clark decided to peer down at Bruce’s lips, effectively pulling him out of his musings. “And you’re beautiful,” Clark whispered, his cheeks growing redder with every word. Then he pressed his lips against Bruce’s.

* * *

“Do you think she knows?”

Bruce replied with nothing but a noncommittal shrug and continued peppering kisses on Clark’s neck. He smelled divine. There was something unearthly in the smell of Clark’s skin that he could not get enough of. He would have that smell with him at all times if he could.

Clark giggled when Bruce reached the spot just below his ear where he was ticklish. “Maybe we should tell her,” he sighed delightfully.

“Something tells me she already knows,” Bruce whispered against Clark’s skin.

An hour ago, they had bid Diana goodbye after a delectable dinner of ginger glazed salmon, needless to say courtesy of Alfred. They usually dispersed altogether after their meet-ups, but this time, Clark had made a lame excuse about having to help Bruce with some heavy-lifting involved in the upgrade of the batmobile. There was no upgrade currently underway. Bruce had not contradicted Clark in front of Diana, but they’d shared a look just before her departure, and Diana’s knowing smile had been crystal clear to him. But not to Clark, apparently.

Clark propped himself up on his elbows. “Really?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at Bruce. “What makes you think that?”

Bruce pulled back to look Clark straight in the eye. “The fact that you’re a terrible liar,” he deadpanned.

“Shut up,” Clark said, hitting Bruce playfully on the shoulder.

“Ouch!” Bruce yelped loudly. He then began massaging his shoulder, exaggerating the impact of Clark’s poke. “I’m not an indestructible Kryptonian, you know.”

In response, Clark flipped Bruce over so that he was flat on his back on the bed with Clark hovering over him. The grin on Clark’s face was all bright and sunshine and yet simultaneously sinful, the lush, captivating look that only _he_ could pull off. This was a gesture that Bruce had only recently learnt, the gesture Clark had used to lure Bruce into the lake several weeks ago, the gesture Bruce had witnessed increasingly often since then. It was mischief, persuasion. It was the look that Clark wore when he was in a playful mood.

He kissed Bruce on the lips, slow and sinuous, but with a promise. Bruce gave in to the sensation, taking from Clark whatever he was willing to give, giving him whatever he wanted to take. This level of surrender had never been possible before. Bruce had been with many different kinds of men and women, had been in relationships with varying degrees of trust and interest, but he had never been with anyone he trusted the way he trusted Clark. It was refreshing. It was frightening. It felt true. He felt exposed. He felt _honest_.

Clark’s lips moved down to Bruce’s lower jaw and then to his Adam’s apple. Bruce had to bite back a moan when Clark licked a hot trail on the column of his neck, but the act only seemed to spur Clark on, as his hand slid down to Bruce’s hips then up to his chest under his shirt. His other hand confidently made its way down to Bruce’s clothed crotch, because _of course_ he did not need to support himself on his arms, since he could literally hover in the air.

“Jesus,” Bruce groaned, feeling himself getting hard, feeling Clark smiling against his neck.

“That’s more like it,” Clark hummed.

“You are,” Bruce gasped and his shirt was suddenly gone, “incredible.”

“I try.”

He let himself relax further in Clark’s embrace. Every little touch set him aflame and he would not have it any other way. Clark was purifying fire, cauterising the ugly gashes on his soul, illuminating the darkest chambers in his mind. Those gashes would reopen and his mind would dim down again, but for this moment he had Clark, and he would be damned if he didn’t live in the moment and give Clark his all.

* * *

The pain all over his body was his only reminder that he was not dreaming. Alfred’s skilful hands were stitching him up, meticulous and methodical as ever, but Bruce could still detect the occasional tremor, the uncharacteristic lack of grace in the man’s movement. He knew that Alfred was keeping himself together for his sake. On top of everything that had happened tonight, Bruce blamed himself for this, too.

Sitting across from him was Dick in his Nightwing uniform. He had come to Gotham and straight to the cave as soon as news of the explosion had reached him. His eyes were trained at Bruce, with a pitying look on his face that Bruce honestly could not stand. Beneath that, however, Bruce could see raw emotion; frustration and hope and heart-crushing grief rolled up into one. Bruce blamed himself for this, too.

Barbara was at the computer, still trying to locate both the Red Hood and the Joker, all the while trading information with her father through the comm. She would not find them tonight and neither would the police. Bruce knew it, knew that she knew it, too. In spite of that, she did not allow herself to stop, probably fearing the fear she would have to deal with if she stopped working. Bruce blamed himself for this, too.

Because it was all his fault. Everything had been his fault from the very beginning. He had destroyed their lives almost as much as he had destroyed Jason’s. Because that was who he was; a destroyer, a force of demolition that only knew how to _hurt_. Now his misdeeds were coming back to hurt him in return. It was no less than what he deserved.

* * *

His body shook despite his mighty effort to keep himself steady. His arms were limp and his knees were giving away. Clark held him tight, arms secure and strong but tender, keeping him upright.

“You can’t blame yourself,” Clark whispered straight into Bruce’s ear.

Bruce wanted to protest, but knew Clark would not agree with him no matter what he said. After all, Clark had come to him, disregarding his having explicitly told him he had not wanted him around. Because that was who Clark was. Stubborn. Headstrong. Compassionate. Faithful.

“I hurt the people around me,” Bruce croaked. “I hurt you. I’ll do it again.”

Clark only held him tighter. “The only way you could hurt me is by pushing me away,” he replied without missing a beat. “Let me help you, Bruce.” His voice was full of affection, sincerity that Bruce was not worthy of. “Let me in. Let me care for you.”

Bruce _should_ tell Clark to go. The right thing to do would be to release Clark from his toxic grip. Because soon enough, it would be too late. Soon enough, he would destroy Clark, too, just like he did everything he touched.

He let Clark care for him instead.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a thing for stories that start and end similarly but with contrasting details (y’know, like BvS), so that’s how I wrote this one, as well as some of my other fics actually. In this fic I wanted to explore the journey of Bruce’s recovery, how he progresses from doing the things he thinks he should do and denying the things he wants to gradually allowing himself to live in the moment, enjoy the company of others, and, well, have what he wants.
> 
> As always, reviews/comments are welcome and appreciated. Come say hi on tumblr too! [mobsterwriter](http://mobsterwriter.tumblr.com/) (writing/rp blog if that’s your thing, though I'm less active here) and [justiceclique](http://justiceclique.tumblr.com/) (personal/fandom/mostly-DC side blog)


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